


That's the way it is

by LastKissofDamaris



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Pining, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-08 19:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastKissofDamaris/pseuds/LastKissofDamaris
Summary: Kieran is trying to make a name for himself among the Van der Linde gang. Arthur notices.





	1. Chapter 1

"You know, I think he's asked just about everyone in camp now."

Arthur didn't need to look up from his saddlebags to know who it was Hosea was referring to; he'd seen the O'Driscoll boy approach everyone from John to Sean, trying to bait them with his score like he'd bait a fish with a worm. But men were harder to reel in, and these men in particular were wary of turncoat O'Driscolls promising gold and glory. Stealing a brief glimpse across the camp, Arthur saw that this time Kieran was trying to work his limited charms on Charles. He couldn't hear them over the hustle and bustle of Pearson preparing the morning stew, or the incessant buzzing of the flies whistling by his ears, but that didn't matter much-he saw Kieran's face crumple, watched him nod his head low until the brim of his hat covered the red of his cheeks, and knew that Charles had said the same thing that they'd all said: No. Absolutely not.

"Has he asked you yet?" said Arthur.

Hosea met his eyes over the top of the crime novel he'd been pretending to read. He looked healthy today. The sun shining down through the trees dappled him with gold, chased away the sickly pallor he'd been wearing for the last couple of days. He laid the book flat atop the table, smiling that small amused smile of his. "He did." he said, his words measured.

"And?"

"I just gave him the _look_."

Arthur was intimately familiar with 'the look', having been on the other side of it on numerous occasions after he'd made particularly idiotic decisions. John had seen it a few times too, had been leveled with it recently back at Colter when he'd lay wounded and embarrassed on his cot in the back of that ramshackle cabin. No words were forthcoming when Hosea measured you with the look, you just took your exit as graciously as you could and hoped -in time-you could crawl your way back into his good books.

"Oh, here we go, this seems a good time for a bet." Hosea was looking back across the camp, his gaze following Kieran as he wrung his hands and looked between Micah and Bill. "What do you say, who do you think he'll ask first?"

"Look, I know the boy's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Hosea, but even he's not _stupid_ enough to go out on a job with either of those fools."

But Arthur was wrong. Kieran was, in fact, stupid enough. He approached Bill like a mouse approaching a cat, stealing furtive glances around the camp as though trying to reassure himself that he was safe, that nothing could possibly happen to him on such a bright, glorious morning. Arthur watched him wring his hands again and again, saw him swallow down the lump in his throat. A bead of sweat had collected in the creases of his eye, he blinked and it fell down his cheek like a tear.

Arthur didn't hear Kieran's proposal, but he certainly heard Bill's _response_. Half the state of Lemoyne probably heard Bill's response.

"You in that much of a hurry to lose your balls, boy!"

Kieran was shaking his head, backpedaling with his hands up in supplication. He looked like he was trying to tame a wild beast. The way Bill rounded on him, the sheer size and strength of him, made him look like something feral that had been dragged out of the woods. "Go on," he yelled, "git."

Hosea turned back to Arthur. His smile was all teeth. "Well," he said, "that went better for the poor bastard than it could have."

Arthur nodded. His throat was dry as old paper. He swallowed down the lump stuck there. Kieran moved through camp with all the speed of a man with a pair of gelding tongs at his back. Arthur watched him until he disappeared over the ridge, down towards the lake. The boy was braver than he'd given him credit for. Stupid, but brave. He turned back to his saddlebags, stocking them with all the things he'd need for the long trek ahead; winter clothes, ointments and tonics, oatcakes for Pegasus, ammunition... By the time he was ready to leave, his arms were aching and the sun was at its zenith. He mounted the great Ardennes he'd picked up in Valentine and urged her towards the edge of camp.

He was just dipping down into the shade of the trees when he saw Micah twirling that damned knife in his hands and making his way over to Kieran.

Arthur dug his heels into the soft meat of Pegasus' side and carried on.

* * *

Arthur was gone from camp for four days. He was as weary upon his return as the first time he'd ridden down from the mountains. The tiredness he felt went deeper than flesh, it had sunk into the very marrow of his bones, and the only thing holding him upright on his horse was the bright lights of Clemens Point beckoning him home through the trees, and the cheer of familiar voices as they hooted and hollered. It sounded like a party was going on. He followed the path along the lake, hoping to sneak in quietly. If he could just reach his tent and collapse into his cot without anyone spotting him, or bothering him with inane requests or small-talk, he might die a happy man. Dutch would want to know all about the bounty. And the money. Of course. But Arthur hoped- _prayed-_ that Dutch was having too much of a good time with the festivities to bother him tonight. 

Someone was shouting something. 

Arthur pulled on the reigns, slowing Pegasus to a stop. He listened. Suddenly it didn't sound much like a party at all. It sounded like a _fight_. 

"That was _my_ score. Y-y-you can't just cut me out of it!" Christ, was that _Kieran_? 

"I can, and I have, Cowpoke."

Was that Kieran backchatting _Micah_? Kieran-Please don't cut my balls off, Sir-Duffy? Arthur found himself reevaluating both his night and his opinion of the young outlaw. Kieran wasn't brave, he was mule-kicked-in-the-head stupid. Arthur spurred Pegasus on, heedless now of being spotted; he had just enough energy left, he supposed, to see the outcome of this bizarre showdown. 

He saw Micah first, or at least the back of him. Arthur didn't need to see his face to know what kind of expression was on it, he could tell just by looking at the outrage in Kieran's. The whole Van der Linde gang had circled around them, some of them were cheering, most of them were drinking. He saw Javier and Lenny in the back, circling the group, taking clips of money. Sean had Karen balanced on his thigh, one hand down the front of her dress and the other pumping the air. The Irish shitstain was probably having the time of his life-tits, beer and good old fashioned brawl. 

Arthur hitched Pegasus just on the outskirts of camp and made his way forwards. Micah was dancing around the ring now like a circus performer, riling up his audience, the smirk on his face bitter as old milk. He'd unbuttoned his shirt, flashing the pink round flesh of his belly; he looked as much a fool as he'd always looked, and Arthur was reminded again by the tight fist curling around his stomach that he'd never despised anyone quite so much as he despised Micah. For that reason alone, when Javier reached him-showing some surprise to find him there-Arthur placed his bets on Kieran. 

"You want your money?" said Micah, turning to face Kieran. "Well you just come and get it."

Kieran looked then like he wanted to balk. Arthur could see his hands through the crowd, see the nervous twitch as they jerked towards one another, but he seemed to gather himself and his wits just as quickly as he'd lost them. He held himself tall, his posture straighter than it had ever been since coming off of that tree all those months ago. 

"I earned that money, Mr. Bell." Were it not for the look on his face, and the low, dangerous way in which he spoke, Arthur might have thought Kieran's nerves had won out after all. But the way he was looking at Micah from under his hat... his eyes were black with unrestrained hate. Whatever had happened between them out on the job went deeper than money. 

"What is this all about?" asked Arthur to Javier, who was counting through the money he'd collected. 

"Hell if I know. It's been going on for two days now though. Ever since they got back- _Ohhhh!_ "

A chorus of similar cries burst through the crowd. Arthur turned back just in time to see Micah staggering, holding the left side of his face. Kieran Duffy-the skinny, stuttering turncoat who'd begged for weeks for his balls, for food, for water, for _mercy_ -had punched him. Lenny was the first to cheer, his voice so loud it startled Uncle from his drunken stupor around the side of Pearson's wagon. Arthur didn't cheer, but he found himself smiling, he found himself throwing his hands together over and over until his palms were red and aching. 

The ghost of a smile was hovering at the corners of Kieran's mouth. Arthur thought, for the first time, that he looked like he belonged there, among the group. Then Micah recovered and threw his own punch, and the boy went down like a sack of potatoes, and he looked-again-like the outsider he'd always be. 

"Guess you lose this one, amigo." said Javier with a shrug. 

Arthur turned and headed towards his cot. He could still hear Micah cursing and beating on the O'Driscoll half an hour later. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Arthur awoke the next morning, it was with no small measure of reluctance. Rocks were tumbling around inside his cranium, bouncing ungently off the backs of his eyelids. He ached more deeply than he had in a long, long time, every fiber of him dull and heavy, pushed beyond limits he'd been too careless to set. The heat of Lemoyne clung to his back like a sated lover, sodden and sticky. He pulled at his collar-was half tempted to strip out of his shirt entirely-and fanned it against the hollow of his gleaming throat. It was a small comfort. 

He could hear Micah off in the direction of the scout campfire, loudly embellishing his deeds with hard-to-swallow stories to some poor unknown company. Something about a train heist he'd pulled years ago, single-handedly of course, shooting down half the state's lawmen as he fled with a take larger than any sum of money yet scored here. Then he came right up to date, laughing about the fight last night, about how quickly Kieran had hit the deck after just one strike. Arthur thought it was hardly much to be proud of; a gentle breeze could knock Kieran flat on his ass, he weighed next to nothing. The only man slighter than him in camp was probably Strauss-even John had some muscle to his meat. 

A heaviness settled deep in Arthur's gut, twisting his stomach like a festered strip of game. He would have to have his morning coffee elsewhere. 

Upon his return to camp the previous evening, he'd barely had the energy to make it to his cot, let alone unpack, so everything he needed remained in his satchel. He fished for it blindly, searching the dirt and the straw until his fingers touched hot, sweating leather. He hauled it to his breast by its strap and mustered the courage to open his eyes. He was immediately blinded by the steady crawl of the sun climbing up over the treeline towards the clouds. Clemens Point swam before him, as though he were viewing a mirage of it in the desert. Even the whites of his eyes were warm, sweating in the closeness of this heat. Arthur could not wait to leave this place; Colter had been hard, sure, but at least in the mountains there had been measures they had taken to tackle the temperature-there was no such relief to be found in Lemoyne, save stripping down to the skin and waiting for the sun to cook him to a black cinder. 

With his percolator in hand, Arthur swung his feet from his cot and stood up. The rocks in his head grew heavier, smashing incessantly against the roof of his skull and the soft grey matter contained within. He couldn't help the groan that whistled through the gaps of his clenched teeth. 

Micah, he saw, was doing his very best to impress Tilly. He loomed over her with a smile that was all teeth and a dark, predatory look in his black eyes. Tilly made no show that she was interested, or indeed even listening, her gaze was fixed elsewhere, past the pink swell of his bared upper half, searching the rest of the camp-looking for an excuse, Arthur imagined, to leave Micah's company politely. She was the softest of the girls, the least likely to tell a man like Micah exactly what was on her mind. Arthur supposed, also, that Micah knew this and enjoyed exploiting it. 

Another voice rose above the rush of blood in his ears: Susan Grimshaw. And not a happy sounding one. Arthur hoped to Christ she wasn't looking for him. He was tempted to dive behind the back of his wagon just to be sure he was safely out of her line of sight. She came into sight like a specter, otherworldly in her rage and discontent. " _Mary-Beth!_ " she hollered. Arthur let go the breath he'd been holding. 

"Mary-Beth, you better damned well get up here, girl!" Her dress was open several buttons more than what was considered acceptable in polite society, her bared collar as red as her cheeks. Even Grimshaw, as poised and put together as she was, could not shirk the discomfort of this heat. "I mean it! If you don't get up here this instant, you'll be feelin' my palm across your pretty little face into the back of next week!"

Mary-Beth came running up from the shore of Flat Iron Lake like a whipped dog afraid of another beating. She was gasping and red in the face, a thin sheen of sweat covering every inch of her bared skin (of which, Arthur was ashamed to notice, was most of it). She was the only one among them turning brown instead of pink. She was holding bloodied rags in her hands that she quickly shoved into her skirts, out of sight. When she reached Grimshaw, she was rewarded with an open handed slap to the face that was loud enough to startle a couple of birds roosting in a nearby tree.

"You do your chores like the rest of us!" snapped Grimshaw. Clemens Point had made her famously short on temper of late. "Now get to it before I colour your other cheek."

Arthur watched her dash off without a word of protest, saw Karen rise from the washbowl she was working at to lean in real close like a lover, inspecting the red palm-shaped mark blemishing an otherwise perfect complexion. He was startled when he looked back at Grimshaw and found her watching him with that look in her eyes she sometimes got, the kind that meant you were in for a _talking to_ now or later. But at some unavoidable point, you were _in_ for it. 

"Mornin'," he offered, nodding his head. 

Grimshaw didn't answer right right away, she was looking over him now, her gaze sweeping up and down the length of him, unashamedly open. There were very few people in camp who managed to scare him, but Grimshaw was certainly one of them. No matter how big he'd gotten, he always felt a boy in her presence. A young, foolish boy. 

"You're not looking too good there, Mr. Morgan." she said at last. "Are you well?"

"As well as can be expected, considerin' the, uh-" he stumbled for the right thing to say, to show that despite his doubts he still had faith. He drew a blank, said instead, huffing a laugh that ached his lungs, "Well, considerin' everythin'."

The understanding smile Grimshaw offered was a weak, helpless thing on her face. "Isn't that the truth." she said, holding her hands out in exasperation. She looked like she had something else she wanted to say, the words poised on the tip of her tongue, but then her eyes fell on the scout campfire and Tilly, sitting there, sipping her morning coffee with the kind of leisure only afforded the men. She excused herself with a waspish "Mr. Morgan." and was gone, storming on up towards poor young Tilly with her fists balled and her skirts flurrying. 

Alone, Arthur fished a can of coffee grounds and his tin mug from his satchel and headed towards the lake. The camp around him was stirring, coming alive as the morning sun grew higher and snatched them one by one from their dreams and the peace of sleep. He heard movement in Dutch's tent-the whisper of cotton against skin, murmured words spoken softly, in secret-and quickened his pace; if Dutch wanted a story, he could get plenty from Micah. 

A single figure sat against the gentle tide of Flat Iron Lake, his shoulders hunched, his hat pulled down low. 

Kieran glanced up at him when he approached. His face was a real picture, one eye so swollen it was barely open, the other ringed black and heavy with blood pooling to the surface. His jaw was the colour of a meadow in spring. "You come to laugh at me?" he asked. He sounded as miserable as he looked. Arthur ignored him for the moment, dumping his stuff into the dirt and following it down with his backside. 

"Nope." he said, avoiding the keen way Kieran seemed to be looking at him. "I came to enjoy a cup o' coffee and some peace and quiet."

Kieran hm'd softly, looking back out onto the waters. Arthur didn't know how, but it was more intolerable here, the heat closer and wetter. He pulled again at his shirt, it peeled away from his skin with an obscene pop. As he got to work on brewing himself his coffee, he couldn't help but notice that Kieran was struggling with something. He took a closer look, saw that the boy was trying to roll a cigarette, his hands trembling, three fingers on his right splinted and useless, two on his left swollen and black. He cursed under his breath, tried again to grip the paper and seal it over the generous pouring of tobacco within, failed, cursed more loudly this time. 

Arthur-much as he liked to deny it-could be kind sometimes. He was kind now, plucking the paper and tobacco from Kieran's grip with a gentleness he thought he'd lost years ago. Kieran looked at him like a startled animal, hurt already blooming in his one good eye, like he expected another cruel jape or prank at his expense. When he saw Arthur dab at the edges of the paper with his tongue, his face softened, looking almost-but not quite-relaxed. Arthur rolled the edges of the paper together, then handed it back. 

"Thanks." said Kieran. It might have been the heat, but there was a flush painting his cheeks red under all the bruises Micah had gifted him. He put the cigarette into the less swollen side of his mouth and went to light it. Arthur took the match and did it for him. Kieran angled his head towards him, thanking him again, his voice as soft and quiet as Dutch's as he murmured sweet nothings to Molly. 

The coffee seemed to awaken more than just Arthur's mind that morning, it awoke his curiosity too. He found himself asking, "What the Hell happened out there with you two anyway?"

Kieran hunched in on himself. There was a guilty look on his face that reminded Arthur of Jack whenever Abigail caught him doing or saying something he shouldn't. He fidgeted with his useless hands, drawing lines into the dirt near his feet. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared at the shapes he was making, then he startled as though suddenly aware that he'd been asked a question, and his good eye found Arthur's two good eyes, and he said, with no small amount of dismay, "He _robbed_ me. After-after we robbed _them_."

He didn't mean to, really, he didn't, but Arthur couldn't help the short sharp bark of laughter that tumbled from him. Kieran glared out at the waters, his lips pursed. "It ain't funny." he snapped, wounded. 

"I ain't laughing at you." said Arthur. "Well, maybe just a little."

Kieran huffed and took a long, deep drag of his cigarette. The flush at his cheeks had traveled down his throat, and only now did Arthur notice the open collar of his shirt hanging loose and ill-fitting to his frame. He looked away, stared out at the point on the water Kieran seemed so fascinated with. Softer now, he said, "What part o' you thought _Micah_ would be a good man to go robbin' with? You've been with us long enough to hear how quickly things go south whenever he's involved."

"I-I _didn't_. I weren't even gonna ask him." he said quickly. "I woulda asked _you_ before I asked _him_."

"Glad to see you hold me in such high esteem." There was no malice in his voice, but Kieran reacted as if there was, shrinking down even further until his shoulders were almost above his head. The brim of his hat hid most of his face. 

"Aw shit," he said, "I didn't mean it like that. I-I just... well I guess, I dunno, I guess I already knew what you'd say."

That was fair enough. Arthur knew as well what he would have said, and it wouldn't have been as polite a refusal as the one Charles had given him neither. Dutch would surely have his head if he suddenly took to robbing and marauding with an ex-O'Driscoll. 

"Besides," Kieran was still talking, a frenetic energy coming off of him like heat bouncing off the waves. His hands found one another in his lap, twisting together out of muscle memory-Arthur caught the whistled hiss of pain. "B-besides, Micah didn't give me much choice. He just came right on up to me, flappin' his hands, talkin' shit about how lucky I was he was even given a man like me a chance." He reached up with his splinted hand, rubbing the bruise along his jaw, mostly hidden by the black of his beard. "Don't feel much like luck."

Arthur didn't ask him anything after that, and Kieran seemed just as content as Arthur to enjoy the silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, thanks for the comments and kudos/etc. Really appreciate it! Will reply after work!


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur could count on one hand the number of times he'd been asked to bring his thoughts to a discussion and not just the worn, rough knuckles of his fists. He knew his value lay only in his brawn-especially these days-but here was Lenny, standing on the edge of his tent, asking him for his opinion all the same. 

"I trust your judgement on this, Arthur." The blissful shade of the evening softened the hard lines the past few weeks had carved into Lenny's face, making him seem younger, softer than he had in a long time. "I know you'd set me straight if you thought I was bein' an idiot." He hesitated, biting boyishly at his lip. He hadn't met Arthur's eyes once since approaching him. " _Am_ I bein' an idiot?"

Arthur considered his words carefully, held them suspended on the tip of his tongue. "Let me get this right," he said, "you wanna take the O'Driscoll out with you on a job, and you need _me_ to inform you that this is a bad idea?" As he spoke, his brows crept steadily up towards his hairline until they disappeared entirely, such was his incredulity. "Come on, kid, I thought you was educated?" What it was that had triggered such a bright idea, Arthur could scarely guess, but he reckoned it probably had something to do with the fight the other week-Lenny's wasn't the only opinion that had been swayed when Kieran's fist swung into Micah's jaw; even big bad Bill Williamson-who never had a thought in his head beyond where the next bottle of booze was coming from-had seemed to soften and reconsider his views. 

Lenny bristled like a ruffled bird. "So you're saying I should find somebody else?" he snapped. 

Alright, thought Arthur, he'd bite. "What-exactly-is this job?" If he knew that, maybe then at least he'd have a better idea on how much of disaster adding Kieran to the equation would be.

Finally, Lenny looked at him. His eyes were blown wide with excitement, two deep black pools. Whatever this job was, Arthur realised, it was _big_. Big and profitable. He shifted further up the cot to accommodate Lenny's sudden crowding of his space. So, big, profitable and-apparently- _secret_. Even with the sun hanging low beneath the trees, Arthur could feel the heat and sweat of Lenny's thighs through his trousers as he sat down beside him and leaned in close. "I've been scoping out this place not too far from Rhodes, " he said, his voice hushed, "there's a man with some stables and some real fancy looking customers. I'm talkin' _real_ fancy, like they have money to _burn_. But even nicer than the customers, I think, are the _horses_."

Well, that explained why Lenny wanted Kieran along. It certainly sat better knowing he hadn't planned on inviting Kieran for his skills with a gun. But Arthur was fresh back from his own job involving horses, and Marston's stupidity continued to gnaw at him even now. He held up his hands, "Wait a minute, kid." he said, gentle as he could. The excitement fell from Lenny's face as quickly as Jimmy Brook's body had fallen over that cliff edge. "Say you and Kieran pick out these prize ponies and get away with your hides still intact, what then? You got a buyer on the other end of all o' this?" Lenny's face continued to drop. "I hate to break it to ya, but me and Marston have already covered this and it don't lead to the nice big pot o' gold you think it does."

"I ain't Marston." said Lenny hotly. "And I ain't you neither, Arthur. I did my research. It's a good plan." He leveled Arthur with a look that could freeze hell twice over. "I don't need advice on _that_."

It was funny, here he was being scolded by a boy almost half his age, and all he could feel was pride, thumping against his chest like a second heartbeat. Some part of it must have showed on his face because a moment later the storm left Lenny's eyes and he deflated, huffing a quiet burst of laughter. "Sorry," he said, his smile awkward and bashful. Arthur dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand; his own smile was so wide it made his cheeks ache. 

"It's a good plan, Arthur." he insisted.

Arthur didn't doubt that. Lenny was smart, he could put together a plan and whip up the right people to set it in motion-no problem. But more than smart, Lenny was also _eager_. And in Arthur's opinion-not that it counted for much-eagerness was a storm cloud coming in hard on a bright, clear day; it was dangerous and it could put things to ruin. 

"Alright." 

Lenny brightened. "So. Kieran? He's good with horses."

"Just about the only thing he is good with." Arthur grumbled. He didn't miss the way Lenny's eyes rolled skyward. 

"Do you vouch for him then?" 

Arthur had been asked easier questions in his life. Truth was, he was still trying to figure out the answer to that himself, had been since Six Point Cabin. His feelings about Kieran were... complicated. "I suppose there are worse options," he offered, caution measuring his words. "But you keep your eye on him, you hear?"

"Oh, I will, don't worry about that." He left as suddenly as he'd appeared, trudging back towards Hosea's lean-to with a spring in his step and a smile plastered across his face. Arthur watched him unfurl several sheets of paper and pour over them with his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. He waited until he was sure Lenny's attention was completely arrested before getting up to find Kieran.

He heard the O'Driscoll before he saw him. His voice came floating around the back of the girls' wagon, high and reedy. He sounded upset. 

"L-look, you already got what you wanted." he was stammering, "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Because I don't like you, _boy_." Arthur's gut twisted. Of course, it just _had_ to be Micah. 

Arthur had met reptiles more charming than Dutch's new favourite confidante. He'd thought his disgust for Bell had already reached its limits, but every time he heard him, every time he _saw_ him, it just continued to crawl on up there, higher and higher until just the very _idea_ of the man turned his stomach. He rounded the wagon and paused-Micah had crowded Kieran so far into the curved trunk of one of the willows that he was standing on the tips of his toes just to chase some extra space between their bodies. He could see the top of Kieran's head poking over Micah's shoulders, bobbing unsteadily as he tried to press himself further into the bark. Between Mary-Beth and Strauss, his wounds had healed up nicely, but there was a wounded look in his eyes that Arthur doubted could ever be truly treated. 

"And I don't trust you." Micah was saying. "You're a rat."

Kieran screwed his eyes shut, sucking in a sharp breath. "Please-" he hissed, _"Please_ -"

"You know what we do with rats?"

Arthur knew what he'd like to do with _this_ particular rat in front of him. He approached with all the quiet and subtlety of a bull in a china shop. Micah turned sharply, for one brief moment looking almost human in his surprise. Then his face relaxed into its usual sneer when his eyes found Arthur's. 

"I'm surprised to see you here, Micah. We all thought we'd lost you up Dutch's ass!"

It was a gift more satisfying than all the money in the world, seeing the smile slip from Micah's face, watching his eyes shrink into two unamused slits as behind them the poor excuse for a brain he had worked overtime to produce something sharp and witty to say in return. Arthur didn't give him the chance, instead he nudged him out of the way and grabbed for Kieran's shoulder, pulling him away from the tree. He didn't get far before Kieran was wincing and sucking in another sharp breath through clenched teeth. Arthur looked back and saw immediately what the problem was. 

Micah had one of his hands gripped so tightly in his own that they'd both gone as red as an open sore. "It's rude to interrupt a private conversation, Morgan." The smile on his face was sharper than the knife he whittled every day. He squeezed Kieran's hand, pushing against the unhealed fingers still in splints. Whether the pain was just too great or he didn't want to seem too much of a soft touch, Kieran made only the barest whisper of a noise, but his face was going as red as his maimed hand and he was sweating more profusely than the heat of the evening could warrant. 

Arthur could feel months worth of hate and hurt building up in the pit of his stomach, flooding over into his extremities like liquid fire until it concentrated into his grip on Kieran's shoulder. He could pull him-give one big almighty tug-and the boy would come away easily, but not without another measure of pain on Micah's end. He tightened his grip, grabbed a generous fistful of his jacket and-

Kieran was looking at him with an expression he was shamefully familiar with-fear. Here he was, caught between two of the worst men in camp and no matter who won this strange tug of war, he was due equal amounts of pain and misery. With more effort than he cared to admit to, Arthur relented, easing his grip. At the same time, Micah relinquished his hold entirely, stepping back with a nasty little smile and a promise in his eyes. "Go ahead," he drawled, continuing to back away, "I'm feeling generous."

To Kieran, he pointed. "You and me, we'll continue this later."

He disappeared around the wagon with a low bow and that nasty sneer on his face twisting more sharply than the scar on his chin. Arthur stared at the spot he'd been standing, his eyes as hot as his stomach. He had half a mind to chase after him just so he could punch the smug look clean off of him, see how quickly he'd recover from a left-hook sprung by a real man. Sooner or later, this thing between them would come to a head, Arthur just prayed that it was sooner rather than later, while Dutch still maintained a thought of his own not yet poisoned by Micah's lies and false affections. 

"U-uh, Arthur?"

With a start, Arthur let Kieran's shoulder go. The boy was still looking at him with fear in his eyes, but there was a measure of gratitude there now too. He rubbed at his hand-the one Micah crushed-wincing as his fingers try to brush out the pain like he'd brush out the knots on a horses's mane. "I-I-I don't want to sound ungrateful, but, uh, what do you... what do you want with me?" his words tailed off into a warble towards the end, like he was half strangling himself. 

It takes a moment to recall why he'd come here in the first place, then he remembers-Lenny. He schools his expression, tries to appear reasonable instead of threatening, but his words come out as gruff and mean-spirited as always, "You can't shoot for shit, O'Driscoll."

Kieran flinched as though struck. Then a hot white fury burns behind his eyes and he looks-for a moment-like he might strike. Arthur almost hopes he will. Instead he does what he usually does in this situation which has become all too familiar to him, he shrinks in on himself, losing inches to his slouch, and purses his mouth into a tight line. Arthur opens his mouth to continue, to get to the point-

"... I shoot well enough to save _you_." It's said so petulantly, muttered so low under his breath that Arthur isn't completely certain he heard Kieran speak at all, but Kieran's glowering up at him with this ridiculous pout on his lips and something like a challenge on his face and Arthur is. Well, he's not sure what he is-he knows he should be angry, should put the boy in his place good and proper, but instead he gets that same little second heartbeat in his chest that he'd gotten with Lenny earlier, and it's possibly the hardest thing in the world not to smile at that moment, not to give anything away. 

"Alright," he relents, "I'll give you that."

Kieran's face goes so slack with surprise that he looks half-paralyzed. He doesn't say anything and Arthur continues, "But you could be _better_."

He leads them down towards Flat Iron Lake, grabbing a crate of beers on the way. Kieran follows as eagerly as a pup. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh my tense is like all over the place. It's so strange, I have a harder time now writing fanfic than original stuff haha. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy! Thank you for the comments/kudos/etc! I really, really appreciate them so much!!

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I've been wanting to write some Kieran/Arthur stuff since this game came out. Rating will go up as this goes on. Probably out of character, but I like to think Kieran would try to hold his own if pushed to it.


End file.
